The People I Hated
by Makingstuffup
Summary: A collection of tellings of the people Roger hated. Could be considered MarkRoger friendship.
1. I hated my parents

**I hated my parents**

The snow crunched under the tires as Roger quietly pulled into the drive. He pulled the keys out but made no effort to get out of the car. The cold however, seeping through the car and his leather jacket got the better of him and Roger climbed out and hurried over to the side of the house. He had done this so many times over the years he had it down to an art. As Roger climbed up the fire escape ladder he always left hanging outside his window he dreamed about when he could finally leave this hell hole. A junior in high school he only had to finish one more year after this, then he could leave for wherever and become famous, strumming his guitar for millions of screaming fans, no longer having to worry about his drunken father. His boots slipped on the frozen metal bar and Roger clutched the ladder more tightly until he caught his breath again. He was not afraid of heights, but he certainly did not want to fall from the second story onto the icy concrete.

Heaving his window open, Roger rolled inside. He quietly hurried, stripping down to boxers and his undershirt and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He was already in bed before he realized he forgot to lock his bedroom door.

"Damn," Roger muttered as he rolled out of bed onto the floor. He made his way over to the latch, but he could hear heavy thudding outside in the hallway. The door burst open, revealing his father, piss drunk, carrying that black belt. Sounds of Mrs. Davis' crying could be heard in the background.

Mr. Davis didn't say anything. He never did.

"Mark?" Roger whispered into the phone, his father snoring in the background. "Do you think I can crash at your place tonight?"

"Roger," Mark rolled over, blearily glancing at his clock "Its one o'clock in the morning."

"Mark, please…"

"Yeah, course you can" Mark told his friend, rolling out of bed to go unlatch the door. He hung up, slipped on his glasses and staggered sleepily across the room, scratching his but.

A few minutes later Roger showed up at the door, shivering. "Mark, Mark let me in!" he called quietly, teeth chattering.

Mark swung open the door, about to ask why Roger didn't drive, but stopped short.

"_What the hell happened to you!"_

He asked leaping aside to allow Roger into the house. He was only wearing sweatpants, an undershirt and his leather jacket. He had slipped into sneakers with no socks on. But that was the least of it. Covered in bruises, his bottom lip as well as his nose was bleeding profusely and his left eye was steadily developing into a black eye.

"Keep your voice down will you?" Roger implored. "Don't want to wake your mom up."

"That actually sounds like a good idea!" Mark answered even as he hushed his voice. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Nothing life threatening, it looks worse than it is…"

"Roger," Mark began weakly "Your dad did this to you, didn't he? You said it was fine, that it wasn't going to happen again,"

"Mark" Roger cut his friend off "I don't want to talk about it. Now I thought you'd be cool with letting me crash here, but if not I can go somewhere else."

Mark sighed. He wanted to help his friend with more than cleaning him up and offering a safe place to sleep, but Roger wouldn't let him. He looked hopelessly at his friend. "Come on, I'll help you get cleaned up, you can sleep in my room."

Roger smiled at his best friend "Thanks Mark, I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mark nodded, thinking _I sure know what you'd do without your parents._

Later that night the two boys laid awake, lost in their own thoughts. Mark glanced over at the young guitarist, his eyes were red and his face was screwed up in a fight against tears.

"Roger its okay…" Mark whispered.

"I _hate_ them Mark, I _hate _them" Roger choked, tears streaming down his face and splashing on Mark's pillow.

"Hate's a strong word" Mark reminded him cautiously.

"I_ hate_ them" Roger insisted adamantly.


	2. I hated authority

**I hated authority**

Roger cast himself down in the chair in front of the desk belonging to the principal of Scarsdale High School. After four years the chair had molded itself to his body and was now extremely comfortable. Situating himself, Roger prepared himself calmly for the usual "disapproving…disappointment…delinquent…and detention". Unfortunately Principal Hickley had a better idea.

"Roger, you're graduating in less than two weeks,"

Roger pretended to be shocked.

"Really, wow Mr. Hickley, I had no idea. High school has just been a blur, but you know what they say: time flies when you're having-"

"-Roger I'm worried about you."

"Aren't you always?"

"This isn't the same. You're going off to become some famous rock star-"

"Rock _god_" Roger corrected "I have the hot pants."

"…And you're a bright kid, but I'm nervous about what's going to happen to you."

"What's gonna happen is this Mr. Hickley," Roger told the balding man, incensed "I'm gonna get outta here and make it big. You'll be see me next on t.v."

"But for what?" Hickley asked, desperate "I don't want you to become a statistic, Roer. You need more than this. You could fall in with some bad people and before you know it your life has run away without you."

"But I'm the one doing the running!"

"Sometimes…sometimes we can't keep up Roger. Its impotant to follow your dreams, but, just, be careful. People do care for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Roger asked sharply, his eyebrows knitted.

"Once you've reached the top, remember the ones that boosted you up" Hickley finished significantly as a blonde film-maker tapped the window, jabbing his watch frantically.

"Can you believe him?" Roger asked Mark angrily as they made their way out to the parking lot.

"He says follow your dreams, but don't get carried away. Strive for the better, but value the mediocre…He's such a hypocrite and he hates me!"

Mark sighed "No, he doesn't Roger, he's just-"

"Well I hate him."

"No you don't, hate's a strong word."

Roger scratched his neck, frowning, but remained silent.


	3. I Hated My Boss

_A/N: My first note! First of all, I'm soooo sorry about how long it has taken me to update, but now it's summer and I have the story finally mapped out so hopefully updates will come much sooner! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! Know that the idea for this chapter was inspired by my friend Ethiwen and without her and The Versatile Scarf this story would have died a very painful death. A break from Angst, this chapter is a lot lighter than the others, but much longer. Rent doesn't mine. Now on with the story!_

**I hated my boss.**

The gleaming linoleum of the Scarsdale SuperMart's Aisle 3 was, after a painstaking 25 minutes of Roger's toil, clear of any residual liquid fabric softener that had been dumped upon the floor by bored hooligans.

Two months. Two months working at this hell that was a one stop shop for all your personal, hygienic, physical and mental needs. Finally, Roger could feel himself beginning to crack.

The slow torture had started with his "identification jumper". A plastic vest adorned with a large name tag reading "Hi, my name is Roger, how can I help you today?" and countless pieces of "flair", or, pins meant to show Roger's personality. He had no clue what was on them and was therefore surprised whenever he received whistles for a "Support Gay Marriage!" rainbow pin, or a magnetism for nerds when he affixed a "May the Force be with you" icon to his vinyl instrument of self induced terror.

The next element in line to destroy any last shred of his dignity was the dreaded P.A. system. The tinny voice of the salesclerk was consistently ordering him about to the far reaches of the store to clean this or re-stock that. As a new recruit Roger could only hope to dream of one day holding the cushy job at the register, sending inferiors to do the dirty work. But just out of highschool and no more than two months under his belt he could do nothing but attend to every whim of his boss.

_His boss_. Come from the far reaches of hell (also known as the local community college) his employer, Francis Brown had found college to be a little too big for him and had returned to the smaller pond of Scarsdale for the opportunity to torment the unfortunate few- i.e. Roger.

"Davis you stocked these cans of beans wrong"

"How can you stock beans wrong? They're on the shelf aren't they?"

"Yes, but they're not in alphabetical order. Didn't you read your training manual? Chapter Six it states 'In order to increase efficiency to benefit shoppers all like items will be stock in alphabetical order beginning with the first letter closest to the top of the aisle. You do know how to order alphabetically right? I mean, you paid attention in school enough to learn at least that?"

Roger thought back to the heavy tome collecting dust in the bottom of his closet. He had counted the chapters (25) and decided to save it for fire kindling.

Scowling at Mr. Brown Roger retorted sarcastically that no, he had not learned the alphabet while at school. His employer was not amused.

"Probation Davis. And you better learn your letters before stocking one of my shelves again."

Mr Brown was obsessed with his power (little though it might be) and Roger hated him for it.

The day was not a good day for Roger. No sooner had he returned the mop he had been using for Aisle 3 to the closet than a mother burdened with several loud children accosted him.

"Where are the Q-tips?" she demanded angrily, apparently having been searching for some time.

Roger glanced up at the display of a pyramid of Q-tip boxes behind her. The sign atop read in large white block letters "Q-tip sale: 3 boxes for $2!"

"Aisle 1, between the shampoo and hair coloring kits. Can't miss 'em" Roger answered, forcibly unclenching his teeth. The woman bustled off without a thank you.

He was tired, had a headache and his favorite pants were smeared with blue liquid fabric softener. Sensing weakness Mr. Brown bustled up to Roger.

"Why are you just standing there? Find something to do!"

"I was just helping-"

"Do I look like I care? No! You know, you've been a real layabout since I hired you. I thought putting you on probation would push you to be more passionate about work, make you want to shine. You haven't been named employee of the week once! You never-"

But what else Roger never did he would never know. His headache had been growing steadily worse and Mr. Brown's annoying nasal voice was boring into his head like a drill only to be broken by a tinny voice announcing "Clean-up on Aisle 5"

"Fuck Aisle 5!" Roger screamed.

An hour later Roger climbed into the passenger seat of the Cohen station wagon. Mark had received it as a graduation present. Roger had gotten his stuff collected in trashbags and a locked door.

Mark glanced over at his best friend. "Where's the vinyl?" he asked jokingly. Met with a glare his face fell. "You got fired didn't you?"

"I hate him" Roger muttered darkly, considering possible means of getting Mr. Brown fired. None came to mind.

"Sure you do," Mark told Roger easily, pulling onto the main street. "But now that you don't have to work Friday you can do that gig at CBGBs you were promised with the Hungarians."

"Oh-yeah…." Maybe Roger didn't hate his boss that much after all.

_A/N: Sorry it wasn't very angsty. The term "flaire" I borrowed from the movie Office Space. The rest of the story is going to be much darker. Promise._


	4. I hated my conscience

**I hated my conscience**

Roger slumped down onto a couch in the back corner of CBGBs. His life, he told himself, decidedly sucked. In a dark, secluded corner the occupant of the couch could look out over the smoky club. It wasn't much to see.

Running a hand through his gelled hair, Roger heaved an exhausted sigh. His band had been doing gigs here and at several local clubs for ages, and still, they had gotten nowhere.

_Nowhere._ That's where everyone had told him he was going. _Going nowhere fast. _ _A nobody, that's what he was- a nobody. 'Rock god' my ass,_ Roger sneered at himself _look where I am now._

Not liking the turn his thoughts where taking, Roger strummed a few notes on his Fender that lay across his lap.

_Ping!_

A string snapped.

"Damn it!" Roger cursed. Losing his temper Roger stood up and made to smash his beloved guitar on the ground before stopping himself. _No, that wouldn't do any good. It's just the string, I can fix that. Can't smash my guitar, where would I be then? Probably the same place I am now._

There that voice was again, the little voice in the back of Roger's mind. The one telling him not to take gigs, that he had no talent, that he should stop now, go back to the SuperMart. The voice invaded his thoughts and haunted his dreams. Roger was sick of it, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stop it. It's hard to tell your conscience to shut up.

_But, I am good_, Roger told himself. _I have fans, like April. She thinks I'm good. _

April had entered his life only a few weeks ago after a gig. They shared drinks at the bar and talked long into the night. April was a bright spot in his life. She made him feel good about himself. But she was only one person in a crowd of many, a red patch amidst a sea of gray. Still…

Roger slumped his head into his palms. He needed something new, something edgy…_A blaze of glory…_

"Roger?"

Shooting his head up, he found April, looking slight the worse for wear, but still beautiful in his eyes.

"Hey baby," April crooned. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head out of frustration, Roger sighed, exasperated "I just…I can't…nothing _flows_, you know? I don't know…Maybe I should re-think this whole rock star thing."

"Sounds like you need a good self-confidence boost" April advised, nodding her head wisely.

Expecting a kiss, Roger tilted his face up.

"No sweetie" April giggled "This lasts a lot longer than kisses."

Roger watched as she slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out a needle and a small plastic baggie.

"My little pick-me-up" April identified it for him.

Still staring at the needle, the voice intensified. _Drugs Roger. Drugs. Don't you remember health class? You don't need these, they won't make you any better._ But another voice, a stronger voice had come into Roger's mind. **_What do you_ _know, if April does them they can't be that bad and they'll give me more confidence!_**

"I don't know April, I-"

"Take these and you won't have to know" April soothed. "Don't worry it doesn't hurt, and you'll feel so good. You don't have to think anymore, your brain just quits down…"

Roger gulped, scared to believe his ears. "So, they'll…they'll stop my conscience?"

April nodded. "You feel so great, like you're at the top of the world."

Biting his lip, Roger reached forward to take the needle and bag. "I hate my conscience."

Smiling, April whispered in his ear as she helped him "I know."


	5. I hated my best friend

A/N: Once again I apologize for my extended periods between updates. I want you to know I _love_ reviews! They make me warm and tingly. Now, I'm not going to turn into Dictator Author and demand reviews before I post updates, because I write for me, but I want you to know how much I value even the shortest comments. So if you read, _please_ review! If you already have, you fantabulous. (50 bazillion bonus points if you know where I got the word "fantabulous" from)

**I hated my best friend**

"I HATE YOU!" Roger bellowed, pounding against his locked door with calloused fists. He had been screaming at Mark for at least half an hour now, yet Mark still would not relent and open the door.

A tired voice came from the opposite side of the barrier to freedom. "No Roger," Mark sighed, "I can't let you out. You'll run off and get high and then you'll die and I'll have no one to share the rent with." A strained chuckle escaped the filmmaker. After weeks of this hell, Mark had been reduced to these feeble attempts at light heartedness. They were lost on Roger, as were the explanations.

Exhausted, Roger collapsed to the floor. Curled up against the foot of the door, he fought the angry hot tears that spilled out of his eyes. He couldn't do this. Who was he kidding? Why was Mark doing this to him? If he was going to die some fucked up death because of her, why couldn't he spend the remainder of his life being happily numb? Numbness felt better than this…this _hell_. Anything was better than this. The Supermart, the principal's office, even his parent's home-at least he had known what was causing the pain. Now, he had no idea.

It couldn't have been her; poor, but beautiful, weak, but brave, wise, but so, _so ignorant_. She had brought him to glory-she _was_ his glory. She saw him the way he wanted to see himself. He loved what she did to him. Her smile was his life. She didn't know this would happen. It used to just be him and her, so simple, so _wonderfully simple. _She didn't want to end it in a dirty bathtub. When it was them, they didn't have to feel. Their world was void of feeling. She allowed him to be free. Without her, it was too much. He could not build those walls by himself. Now there was a raging sea of emotions that threatened to drown him. He could barely breathe. Maybe that's why she did it, she was drowning in feeling. They would never be able to shower properly again…

It couldn't have been the band, his music that brought him to near stardom. He almost had it. He was so close, just one song away and he would've made it big. It was always the music that drove him. He could lie and say it was the prospect of fame and money and girls, but it was the music. The simple melodies that when wrapped with crescendo and rhythm became like magic. The music was apart of him, and still was. It could certainly never have driven him to _this_…

It couldn't have been the drugs. They were helpful. He would never be nervous if he could have them in his system. He could do no wrong. They had made everything right, they wouldn't have turned on him…

It must be Mark. His so called friend that locked him in his room and denied him the only happiness he could possibly derive from this pathetic life. How could he? That betrayer, liar, _hypocrite. _Mark didn't know what he was doing. Mark, who shuts down as his camera rolls. Mark, who rejects feeling on the pretext of observation. Roger has to deal with all this crap poring out of his heart and head, but does Mark? No! Mark doesn't need emotion; he's got his work, and his camera. He was his best friend. Maybe Mark just loved his camera more. Cameras didn't go through withdrawal. Roger _needed_ Mark, he needed April. He hated having to need. Cameras didn't need. Mark didn't understand…He never did.

He needed a hit. His body was screaming for one. Why wouldn't Mark let him out? He needed out, the walls were closing in. He was choking, choking in want, in _need_. He couldn't breathe. Short gasps of air were barely manageable.

"Mark, Mark it hurts" he choked, no longer having the energy to scream and claw. His throat was so dry he could barely get the words out.

There wasn't an answer for a long time.

'_Mark doesn't care about you'_ a long silenced voice whispered in Roger's mind. _'You've hurt him so he wants to hurt you.'_

"No," Roger whispered, trying to silence the voice, but he couldn't. The voice wouldn't go away without the drugs.

'_You can't deny that you've hurt him. He's mad at you so he wants you to suffer. You deserve it.'_

"No…"

'_You deserve it'_

"Mark, it hurts! I want to make it go away, it hurts! I hate you Mark! I hate you, it hurts!"

Mark ran his finger across the coarse grains of the door he'd been curled up beside for what felt like ages. "I know Roger," he said quietly, tears spilling down his cheeks, "It hurts me too."


	6. I hated myself

AN: I know, I'm awful at timely updates. This chapter is insanely short, but it's going up with the next one seconds behind it. Reviews, as always, are considered to be most wondiferous.

**I Hated Myself**

Deep breaths. In. Out. Roger sat shaking on the dilapidated sofa. He shouldn't have blown up like that. It wasn't her fault. I should've just told her…

_Let's run away._

How he would have liked to taken Mimi up on that offer. Run away, to be free. She was such a free spirit, not contained by the clutches of the city as so many others. Her mystery and charm begged Roger to pursue her. But he couldn't. So many things were wrong. He couldn't to that again. Not again. He was finally just climbing out of the nice, large hole he had dug himself into. He couldn't possibly launch into this again. It would take a lot more than some neon lights and pretty eyes to suck him in again. If only he had met her a few years ago…but he had, in April. No, Mimi was not April. Where April had been insecure and unsure of herself, placing all attention on him, Mimi was a prideful cat, willing to let him pet her, but to never tame.

She was a junkie. How easy it would be for him to fall down that slope again. He couldn't trust himself not to. He was weak, and was reminded of that every step he turned. None of this was her fault. He had hurt her, he hadn't wanted to, but he had out of fear. Fear of himself.

_Fuck getting fucked up. _

Couldn't he just leave the past behind? It was a new day, wasn't she worth the risk? Was anything?

_Forget Regret._

Confusion. He couldn't just forget everything that's happened. Did she expect him to simply throw caution to the winds and leap with total abandon into the raging storm of life?

Roger snickered. _I should put that in a song. Raging storm my ass._

Hell. He was getting shakes almost like the ones he got in withdrawal. He was sick of staying inside. Funny to have spent a year cooped up in the place, only to suddenly feel you can't get out fast enough. For once, Roger saw himself as what he'd become. A coward, consumed by the past. Enough with memories. However slowly he would shred them away, it was refreshing to know this was the start of something new; something better. It couldn't get any worse. Getting an idea, Roger shrugged into his leather jacket and walked out of the loft, intending to find Mark.


	7. I hated New York

**I Hated New York**

_City sidewalks, busy sidewalks…_

Roger pushed past the sea of shoulders and elbows as he fought his way back to the loft after Angel's funeral. Desperately, he fought the emotions battling for dominance within him.

Cold bitterness. They couldn't lose Angel, they _couldn't_. But they had. Angel was superglue, with her gone, their makeshift family crumbled. The strong are often the first to go. Why? They needed her. Shouldn't the wretched disease taken someone like him? He, who deserved it more than the others? But if he had learnt anything in his lifetime, it was that the world is cruel. New York in particular. The cut throat atmosphere left no one safe. New York was like an exotic animal. It drew crowds in from suburbia, alluring in its mystery and adventure. Then, when its too late to get out, it reveals it's deadly fangs, snapping mercilessly. Oh sure, you can follow your dreams here. Go ahead, join that band. Whoops, that's gonna cost you your best friend. You like that girl? Ask her out! Oh, now you get a free ticket to the land of druggies and AZT. Everything has a price in New York.

Hot anger. How could Mimi do this? Seek shelter in Benny? The yuppie scum who couldn't care less about any of them? Why did he ever let himself get involved with Mimi? She was a junkie and he knew better than anyone she'd only quit for herself. How could he have been so blinded? Stupid moon, it really was just some neon sign…

Numb exhaustion. He couldn't take this. It was too much. He felt ready to explode, or to tear at himself in hopes of extricating this overwhelming pain. Again, he was suffocating. No. None of this was happening. It couldn't be. Just make it _stop_.

Now entering the filthy Alphabet City. The familiar sounds and smells greeted Roger's senses. Grunts issuing from some poor bloke being mugged. The salty tang from the cold sweat of the junkies yearning for another hit, but too poor to afford one. Various shouts and curses. Rotting garbage. Roger picked up his pace until he was jogging up the stairs to the loft.

What do you take when you want to leave everything behind? A ratty rucksack filled with clothes and a few toiletries. All his savings wadded up in his pocket. No photos.

The heavy door slid open. Mark. He looked so awkward standing there. He remained near the door as if to barricade it from Roger, but at the same time he seemingly shrunk in size, looking confused and hurt.

"I hear there are great restaurants out West…"

Damn it Mark, don't act like everything's okay. You always do this; hide from reality. IT'S NOT OKAY! Roger wanted to storm at Mark. He wanted to shatter that timid and even apologetic face.

"Some of the best."

He had to make Mark understand. He couldn't leave him hurting like this. Mark would understand. But no. Mark was ignorant. It was odd how much he and April had in common. Both viewing the world through rose colored lenses, April by the point of a needle and Mark through the lens of a camera.

Why was this turning into a confrontation? Mark couldn't understand. He didn't know, he didn't _see_. None of this should be happening. It wasn't happening. Mark didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Escaping pain? Life is pain; the only way out of it left a stain in the bathtub.

"Who are you to tell me what I know?"

Mark didn't get it. He may film life, but he sure as hell didn't live it. How many more muggings would he have to record before he saw them as victims and not thematic subjects? How many more reels would he edit before realizing his own obscurity? Mark hadn't lived since Roger started using. He hadn't made any films since then either. He was failing. Failing both a work and life. Was it fear? Fear of feeling? Because Roger sure was sick of feeling.

"You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive."

Mark didn't cry at Angel's funeral. He hadn't cried when they found April either. Roger had sobbed so hard, he felt his vocal cords would surely tear apart, but Mark hadn't shed a tear. It didn't seem possible Mark could express emotion through cold film reels when he couldn't feel or show it himself.

"Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive."

There it was. A few short years of overwhelming emotion versus a lifetime of living in a void. What a pair. Too much and not enough. This is it, he was through. No more. Not yet at least.

It was not the fall he hated, it was all of New York. This suffocating hell-hole of a city. Roger needed to breathe. Free, open air, lacking of oppression. Santa Fe.

Glory.


	8. I hated doctors

**I Hated Doctors**

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Roger dozed lightly in a square, lightly padded plastic chair. Behind him, curled up in another uncomfortable seat, sat Mark, staring ahead without seeing. In front of Roger lay Mimi on a hospital bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was two weeks after Christmas. Two weeks spent in an uncomfortably sterilized hospital. One would think after dying and coming back to life, the disease would realize it wasn't her time, that 20 years had not been enough time to live. Still, within two weeks Mimi had slipped in and out of comas, been resuscitated by the doctors and had countless needles poked into her arm.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

After Christmas everything was supposed to be fine. Mimi got of drugs just in time to get hooked on the needles again. They were supposed to be helping her, the doctors told Roger as he glared at them and stroked Mimi's thinning hair. They drew a lot of blood; mainly to count T-cells, but it was used for other things to, or so the doctors assured him. IVs littered Mimi's forearms. This one supplied nutrients. This one kept an "open vein" for the doctors to draw blood. This one, Roger sneered every time he thought of it; this was to help with the pain. He had heard that before: happiness through a needle. La de fucking da.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A nurse scuttled in every 45 minutes to check vitals and ask polite questions is anyone was awake. Roger didn't mind her too much. She seemed nice and he felt like she actually cared, not only about Mimi, but for all their well-beings. On the plump side with ruby red lips and cheeks, her strawberry blonde hair always pulled up in a bun. Her scrubs were always cheerful featuring a montage of cartoon characters and multi-colored cats alternatively. Her name was Charlotte. Surprisingly, Roger wasn't upset by her molly-coddling, he actually secretly appreciated it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The doctors were another case altogether. Roger hated anyone who walked through the door in a pristine white lab coat, most often a long needle in hand. They ignored most of his questions and when they did take precious time out of their day to speak with him it was in a superior fashion. Every word uttered by them was dripping with a mixture of sarcasm, conceit, and over-confidence. They always felt the need to define words for him.  
"We're giving her an I.V. meaning, she'll have a tube connecting her to a pouch that will supply nutrients, or, food."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was impossible to see how they could be helping her. Every day she grew thinner, paler, and balder. Every day her lips were a little more chapped; her throat a little more dry. Every day they discovered new lesions on her body. Seldom was she able to remain alert enough even to hold her eyes open. This rarely stopped Roger. 'Visiting Hours' meant nothing to him. If this was their last visit to the hospital, he sure as hell wasn't going to leave before the end. A stream of their friends dropped by; Mark was there almost as much as Roger, leaving only to get some sleep at the loft, or pick up food for Roger and himself. Collins was restricted by his schedule at NYU, classes were back in session. But that didn't stop him from dropping by when he had the time, pressing food into Mark's hands and patting Roger on the back. Maureen and Joanne made their appearances as well, but they hadn't known Mimi very well and felt sorry for Roger more than the girl on the bed. Benny was conspicuous only by absence. They all knew this prolonged stay in the hospital was only made possible by his insurance, but he had yet to stop by for a visit. In the time the two were alone, Roger would climb into the bed with Mimi, unconscious or no. He would murmur into her raven hair, oily from neglect and hold her close to him, not wanting to let go. Other times he'd sing softly, though never Your Eyes. The time would come when he might sing it again, but it was not now. Not yet.

Beep. Beep. Bep. Bep. Blep. Blip. BLEEP.

Roger's head jerked up from its resting position against his chest as Mark launched out of his chair to the Call Button.

"What's going on?" Roger asked, his voice raised over the frantic pings issuing from Mimi's life sustainer.

"I don't know. Where are they?" Mark darted out of the room into the hallway. "Doctor! Nurse! Anyone!"

Charlotte rushed in, "She's gone into shock," she told Roger as he clutched Mimi's lifeless hand. Phones were being dialed by both Charlotte and Mark.

BeBEEP. BeBEEP. BeBEEP. BEBEEP. BEBEEP. BEBEEPBEBEEPBEBEEP.

"Doctor, I need you in here stat-"

"You'd better get down here, man-"

"Shock…paddles…emergency…"

"Its not looking too good….might be it…bring…ROGER WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Was this the end? Is this how it was going to be? Mimi in the final stages with no one to help her but a retired nurse because the doctors were too busy on lunch break, and Mark arranging the funeral? Sense had left him. No, sense had left all of them. The doctors couldn't help her, they'd done nothing for her, but poke and prod and jab and prick. This wasn't the end. This was the beginning. Roger had to save her. He had to save her from the needles. So with the other two conscious occupants tied to phones, Roger leapt at Mimi's forearms. He yanked the murderous needles out of their lodgings, spilling bile and blood on the white linen.

The doctors weren't going to help. It was up to Roger. He had to save her. The needles did nothing. The hospital did nothing. He'd take her back to the loft, back to their home and he'd care for her until she got better. Already he could see color coming back to her face, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal her gorgeous brown eyes. He should have thought of this sooner. Arms were pulling him back; pulling him away from Mimi. Damn Mark, he was always holding him back.

"No! Don't you see, we've got to save her!"

Charlotte was there too. "You're not a doctor honey, you can't-"

"FUCK THE DOCTORS!"

He hated them. They spent the day feeding poisons into Mimi then went home for dinner to their chubby children and wives before blowing their inheritance money at the Cat Scratch. Damn them.

Mimi would get better. Roger would save her. She would wake up any second now.

"Mimi, Mimi say something. I'm here, its going to be alright now. Mimi? MIMI?"

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

AN: Some of you may not like this chapter at all and that's okay. In case you didn't catch it, Roger went a bit crazy and the signs of life he saw in Mimi were completely imaginary, so don't think he killed her. Also, don't think I hold any vendettas against hospitals/doctors, this is all fiction and I'm expressing Roger's views not mine. Remember that next chapter too, it's going to be rather controversial…For now thank you for reading and please, PLEASE review!


	9. I hated God

A/N: As you can guess from the title, this chapter is going to be a bit controversial. Please remember that I am not broadcasting any personal views here, I am comfortable enough in my religion to write this, so please don't send me any "Jesus loves you, why don't you love him?" cards. You may read this chapter and wonder why I was bothering to say any of this and that's cool. There's also some excessive swearing. As always thanks for reading, I never thought I'd make it this far with the story, but here I am, the second to last chapter. Enjoy and if you send me any comments, criticism, critiques, congratulations, consternations, or crackers I will love you for it. I guess I'll let you get to reading the next installment now.

**I Hated God**

They said it was a blessing really. Now he could be with Angel. Roger didn't understand how death was a blessing. Collins went less than six months after Mimi. That was a shock; he had been the strong one. Never had he acted like he was positive. His dosage of AZT went unnoticed. Everyone knew of course, that he was sick, the same as Roger and Mimi and Angel, but Collins seemed so immune to the deadly poison permeating his blood stream. He wasn't the type to die young. Roger was next in line. His friends had dropped like flies in face of disease. Less than two years passed and three souls left the face of the earth. It was only a matter of time.

Funerals were always the same. No one ever mentioned bad things about the departed. Sitting in a pew next to Mark, Roger suppressed a chuckle as the priest droned on. He remembered Collins hogging the bathroom because he became enraptured in an editorial while on the can.

"Collins you've been in there for an hour," Roger whined.

"Mmhm," was the muffled response as Collins peeled back another page.

The priest continued to praise Collins in his "pursuit of life". Roger wondered if this guy even knew who Collins was; that he was a gay anarchist who died from AIDS; judging from the clergyman's presence probably not. It was absurd that the funeral of Tom Collins the Anarchist and Vagabond Extraordinaire who was banned from speaking at half the colleges in the nation and begged for lectures by the other half was taking place in a Catholic church. It was the bohemian's first traditional funeral. For Angel they had quietly assembled along with a few of her relatives and shared memorable anecdotes. Mimi's death went uncelebrated, her primary mourner Roger being locked away in order to regain his sanity. That hadn't been much fun. Now that Collins had kicked the bucket Maureen had insisted they do things "properly". As the former diva had announced to them, she had "found herself". In reality her fast and loose lifestyle caught up with her, delivering a bona fide positive test for the HIV virus, leaving her terrified and determined to make things right before she was condemned to Hell.

Again he suppressed a churlish giggle, but this time Mark noticed the shaking of Roger's shoulders. What was the matter with him? He was at a funeral! He glanced up at the ceiling in an attempt to compose himself, but instead spotted an elaborate stained glass depiction of a biblical tale. Roger burst out laughing. The priest had stopped his sermon, staring at Roger in apparent concern for his mental health, but Roger was perfectly fine, those folks at the rehab for his brain had told him so. This was all so ridiculous. There were only four of them gathered here; listening to some stranger extol the virtues of a man he had never met in a place that Collins did not even respect.

Collins' lack of religion had always worried Roger. Raised Catholic with the wine, crackers and confessions, Roger, though having rejected the formalities of religion, still believed if only out of fear. Better to spend two seconds muttering nonsense than an eternity in damnation. Play it safe. Not once did Collins ever force his atheism upon the others. He'd wax philosophical all night to them, but never did he comment on his views that there was no such thing as God. The thought still frightened Roger all the same. There may or may not be, but wouldn't it just be safer to believe there was? Now, having experienced just what life did to somebody, Roger no longer cared. What did the presence of a holier being do? Everyone was still screwed either way. People still die every day from fucked up diseases. Whatever god there was didn't seem to care.

"Roger," Mark's quiet voice was waspish, strangled as the priest continued the sermon as if nothing had happened, raising the volume of his speech to prevent further distractions. Mark's blue eyes were pained and pleading. "Don't, just, just _don't_, not _now_, please, _please_ _just **stop**_."

Normally that tone, that look upon Mark's face would have taken Roger's breath away, caused him to become paralyzed, but another voice had sounded in Roger's ears.

_They're all so fucked up, aren't they?_

They're grieving, -I'm- grieving.

_In a church? When has some hokey religion ever given you comfort? Do you feel some warm, happy spirit encompassing you? Hugging you? Telling you it will be okay? No. Maybe your praying doesn't work as well as it's cracked up to. God doesn't listen to washed up junkies that murder their friends._

Shut up.

_It's alright though. You know how to be comforted._

No. Shut up.

_It doesn't have to be this way you know. You don't have to sit here in this uncomfortable wooden bench listening to some stranger try to comfort you. You can comfort yourself… with a little help. _

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

_He's probably only a few blocks away._

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The church fell silent. Stricken, the priest stepped down; his face flushed a bright puce, and scurried out into his chambers.

Roger felt Mark push himself up from the pew, tears streaming from the blonde's eyes. Had Roger been calmer he might have realized Mark too was a stranger to the church; a Jew mourning in a place of worship for Catholics.

The others followed Mark out; Maureen rushing after her Pookie and Joanne after her Honeybear.

Roger was left alone.

Heavy breathing cut through the stifling silence. Roger clutched at his chest fearing his heart was about to be expelled in a gasp. He stumbled out into the aisle and made his way falteringly up to the dais. White hot tears poured out and streamed down his face mingling with sweat and snot. Tears for Collins and Mimi, tears for Angel and April, tears for Pam and Sue and Gordon and all the incredible people that no longer breathed because their bodies had been eaten away by a virus, there were also tears for Joanne who would lose the woman she loved because Maureen was a selfish bitch and there were tears for Maureen because everyone had to be allowed to make mistakes. Tears threatened to fall for Roger, but he pushed them away. He did not deserve self pity. Instead, he cried for Mark. All the things he'd done to him and all the things Mark did for him, all the jokes they weren't going to share and fights they wouldn't have. If anyone should have fallen to pieces today it should have been Mark, but he hadn't, at least not in front of everyone as Roger had done. At last, the flow of sobs ebbed away and Roger was left hiccupping and gasping for air like a fish flopping around on a dock.

"Fuck you," he whispered, rasping through his closed throat and congested nose.

What type of world was this, a place where this happened every day to undeserving people?

"You call this fair? You call this _life_? Fuck you!"

The podium made a resonating bang as it fell upon the floor. That wasn't enough, the pain was still there.

"Why don't you just stop? Can't you give anyone a break?"

Next were some hymn books, shredded thoroughly.

"Collins didn't deserve this! Mark didn't deserve this! _I don't deserve this!_"

Real damage was needed. Roger seized a bible and chucked it as hard as he could at the stained glass window in front of him. The window portrait of St. Jude was shattered and, spent, Roger collapsed to the floor.


	10. I hated death

A/N: So this is the end. It took me ages, but now it's done in time to be rolled out as a Christmas present. Thanks go to Ethiwen who was always willing to read everything I ever IMed to her. I'm surprised I never busted AIM with all the long entries I was pumping over. Her support kept me going, when I was fed up and just wanted to quit. Therefore I am thankful to not only her, but every single reader who ever reviewed, favorited, or even alerted this story; each individual action gave me a huge boost of confidence so I am in your debt. I love comments, especially constructive criticism, so if you want to take two seconds and push that little button and type "xD" that would be awesome. ( It would be even better if you actually put more effort than that in!) Thank you all for reading.

**I hated death**

The hardest thing to grasp was that it was the final, complete, inescapable end. The ultimate negative. Everything he did, saw, heard, felt…was recognized as possibly the last time he would do it. He wasn't ready for it to happen, but then, he never could be. The worst part was he wasn't leaving much behind. No one burned their bridges as well as Roger Davis.

Anyone that he had ever allowed to be close to him was either dead or dying. Except Mark. Roger allowed himself a small sense of amusement as he imagined Mark trying to substitute Joanne as new best friend. She certainly had him beat at drinking games, but Roger doubted whether she could ever grasp the finer points in the musical excretion of gas. Vaguely Roger wondered how long it would take Maureen to croak. He hated to admit it, but he hoped it was soon. Otherwise, Joanne would stay with her and Mark would be left alone. Poor Mark. Somehow, it was always poor Mark. All this shit happened to him, and all he could care about was Mark. He hated that. Roger hated a lot of things. 

He hated his parents who never gave a rat's ass about him. That's why when his mother finally left the bastard and tried to contact him he never responded. It took him years to relent and mail a couple postcards once in a while. He hated that he had never forgiven her.

He hated the people that tried to teach him, thinking they were so superior. Maybe if he had let them help him achieve anything, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. There were a lot of maybes in his life. Roger hated not knowing what those maybes would have done.

Roger hated his job. In reality, he hated working. He really was just a lazy ass. Laziness accomplished nothing. He hated never having any pride in himself.

Roger hated knowing he was wrong. He couldn't be the arrogant pig he was if he did. He loved feeling high. He didn't know he loved what was wrong. Roger hated being wrong.

He hated meddling friends. How dare they save his life? He needed them. He needed Mark. He wondered if Mark ever needed him. He could never hope to pay him back. He hated that he had never said thank-you.

He hated himself for everything that happened. Arrogant him had to lay all the blame and guilt on so he could sulk around. There wasn't much point to saving him since he just wasted that year anyways. It was always all about him. He didn't care about others. His life was the one screwed up; therefore they did not deserve happy lives either. He hated being selfish.

Roger hated his home. That's what New York was, that's what it could only be. Why else would they freeze their asses off every winter otherwise? He went there to be somebody, but so did the other hundred thousand people dwelling there. It was his own insignificance he hated, nothing more.

He always did hate people better than him. Anyone who could help, anyone in a better position to do something. Because he was the one who deserved the glory; not them. They can do nothing compared to him. He hated being helpless and desperate.

He hated forgiveness. He didn't deserve it. Being forgiven didn't provide comfort. He already knew how to get that. The answer was always being whispered in his ear. He heard that voice. He knew what it was. And no deity could do anything to stop it. Roger wasn't crazy. He was tempted. He was the bad boy. He hated being bad.

He hated hating! Couldn't he be happy? For once? Was he going to die just some evil, spiteful person who hated the fact they were who they were? Life sucked, or his did at least. Nearing thirty years old and all he had was a life time of regrets. That's what he hated after all. Things that happened or didn't happen. Whatever kept him from what _should_ have happened. How idiotic, to spend all this time hating the insignificant, when the only thing worth the emotion was the stop to it. He hated that he was dying and would hate that until his last breath. All the other things didn't matter. They were the past and there's no changing the past. What was it, that little prayer Mimi, and Angel, and Collins, and Gordon, and all those other people said? Forget regret. Well it sure did take him long enough.

Roger glanced over from his position on the couch at Mark, who was fiddling with the projector and cracked a smile. 

"I've seen the film enough times Mark, don't worry, I haven't forgotten it. You don't need to get one last showing in."

Mark stared balefully at Roger, arms wrapped up comically with film reels. He hated it when Roger was so flippant about the fact that he was going to drop dead any day now. Roger wondered what else Mark hated. He had never given much thought to it. The only thing Roger could think of was pain. Mark hated pain. He didn't fear it as Roger used to believe. He hated it, and yet he still opened himself up to situations to feel it. Upon reflection it was a good thing to hate, but without pain, joy wouldn't be as important. Maybe that's why Mark stuck with him all these years.

"I'm sorry," Roger began, "I'd love to see the film again."

"No, it is just a movie," Mark made his way back to the couch. "Might as well enjoy the real thing," Mark sat on the couch.

The thought _enjoy it while it lasts_ crossed Roger's mind, but for once he held his tongue.

"Thank-you," he murmured over the top of his fleece blanket.

"For what?" Mark laughed.

_Saving my life, always being there, making me laugh, telling me whenever I'm an idiot, forgiving me, doing everything I ever needed but could never ask for…_

"Being my friend."

There was a moment of silence before Mark rationed, "Someone had to be," and they could share a chuckle.

They wrapped their arms around each other in a tight embrace.

"This sucks," Mark choked.

"I know."

"I hate this."

"Hate's a strong word…"

END


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